A Cagen Recipe

INGREDIENTS

1 Long-haired Nicolas “Nick” Cage.

1 Blonde babe.

1 Blazer.

2 1/2 Chase scenes.

1 Mysterious object.

3 Goons wearing suits.

1 Older, crew cut evil mastermind.

1 Burger King toy tie-in and/or talk show appearance.

7 Months of hype.

DIRECTIONS

Season Nicolas Cage by having wardrobe fit the long-haired thespian with a navy blue blazer.

Slowly stir in a mysterious object – a box with strange inscriptions? A tablet of sorts? – that in someway conveys the impending end of the world about to occur in 90 to 120 minutes, depending on the script. Let that simmer on a low heat.

Place Cage aside for a moment and whisk in a blonde babe in an unbelievable job position, such as the pinup girl theoretical physicist. Add large hooters for flavor and mix thoroughly.

Meanwhile, in a medium length scene, combine the goons with the evil mastermind in a delightful criminal caper. After letting that saute for a bit in a non-stick pan, top with the Cage and blonde babe mixture from earlier. Garnish with a young, comic-relief actor full of contrived jokes and a whimsical obliviousness to all of the plot holes.

Top with a melon salsa and lemon wedge.

Serve warm with a Conan O’Brien appearance.

This recipe could easily yield $150 million.

Thinking of the Impossible

I thought about my childhood before getting bored with the familiarity of it all. Instead, I moved in the opposite direction and started to ponder about the future. I thought about where I could end up, what I might be doing and who I may be with.

ButI didn’t dwell too much on those details. Rather, I was more interested in what my future self thought about his (my) life. I thought of my future self thinking back to the past (my present) and listing all of the things that he never did and that I will never do.

Most people like to talk about their life goals and dreams. Some feel compelled to brag about them, harping about the things they’ve never done but will definitely do when the time is right or the money is available. They hold onto these hopes believing, whether realistically or not, that they will all come true. In fact, some of them do come true. After all, not all of these goals are big aspirations; some hope simply for a painless trip to the dentist or sunshine on Saturday.

As I thought about myself in the future, I wanted to think about the life goals that managed to slip away. The first thing I recognized as I looked back is how I never made it to the NBA. As of today, I find myself with no other choice but to accept that my professional basketball career will never get off the ground. Even though I would be just entering my prime, the NBA draft is no longer realistic.

Growing up, I would shoot hoops out on the driveway, shouting “Reggie Miller!” as the ball left my hands, clanged around the rim awhile, and occasionally fell through the net very Reggie Miller-like. Sometimes I would post up with my back to the basket and hit a jump hook, shouting “Hakeem!” so kids in the neighborhood knew I was just like Hakeem Olajuwan, outside of the whole African thing.

Back in the day, I assumed playing in the NBA was an inalienable right granted to me upon my birth. I was destined for hoops greatness.

Turns out, I was mistaken.

Now I sit at a desk, occasionally shouting “Jack Welch!” so that those in the cubicles next to me would recognize that I am just like the former CEO of General Electric, brokering multimillion dollar deals while appeasing the shareholders. Sitting at my desk, people would think Jack Welch was sitting right there. Shave a few billions from Welch’s net worth and we’re practically twins.

As I reflected on my non-existent and never-beginning basketball career, I thought about how that means I’ll never play in an All Star game, win an MVP award, or play for the Dream Team. I also will not become a professional baseball, hockey, or football player either, now that I think about it.

I don’t even own a tennis racket so Wimbledon seems like a long shot at this point too.

Once past the sporting world, I wondered about what other things will never come true. Things that I always wanted to do when I was a kid.

Growing up, my career path was always changing. Now that I’m in the working world, I’ve realized that I will never be a cop or a fireman. I won’t be a doctor, a fighter pilot, a lawyer, or a spy.

While there’s still time for me to become an astronaut, I just can’t see it happening. My future self has been stuck on Terra Firma with no hope of leaving ground this whole time. Of course, there are probably some things I could still do that could lead to my astronauting. But I don’t think I have the energy. You need to take specific steps to become an astronaut and I haven’t even got the ball rolling, let alone looked at the hill I have to push the darned thing down.

Also, I’ll never try frog legs. My future self is okay with that. My present self has no complaints either.

I can’t picture any situation where I end up in South Dakota either. I don’t know what’s there. Beautiful countryside? The greatest burger joint? Maybe that’s where the world’s largest pie pan resides?

But I’ll never see any of that.

At no point in my life will I have bought a South Dakotan bumper sticker or a lovely South Dakotan t-shirt with a funny South Dakotan saying printed on it. My future self can only dream about what South Dakota looks like because he will have never experienced it first hand.

And you know what?

I’m okay with that.

I really don’t think I’m missing anything. Then again, I’ll never get to find out what I’m missing.

My livelong dream of spending a summer at Camp Anawanna – a place I hold in my heart and which, when thinking about it, makes me want to fart – will never come to fruition. I suppose I could go outside and salute my own shorts, but that would be weird. Right?

People say they want to learn a foreign language, but I don’t see it happening at this point. I won’t see an elephant out in the wild either. And I doubt I’ll ever have a cup of coffee with Jeff Goldblum. I’m 50/50 on this. On the one hand, it’s Jeff Goldblum; on the other it is just Jeff Goldblum, you know?

I’ll never be able to pull off wearing a tank-top unironically.

At no point do I see myself taking karate lessons.

I sincerely believe I fill visit other countries, but not nearly as many as I want.

I will never be a bus driver. I will never learn to drive a bus. Hell, I will never even sit in the driver seat of a parked school bus. There are billions upon billions of people on this planet and only a small percentage can drive a bus. If my future self keeps up with his math skills (he won’t), he would be able to calculate the percentage of humans that are bus drivers, a percentage that doesn’t include him.

Despite owning several hats, I don’t see myself ever regularly wearing a baseball cap.

I can learn to juggle, but I won’t.

I can buy a cat, but I won’t.

I can get a tattoo, but I won’t and I can’t for I would pass out at the sight of the colored tipped needle moving towards my exposed skin. My future self will have the same color skin that I live with now.

I won’t dye my hair a different color or go through this weird stage where I walk around wearing black eye liner.

As my future self does a self body-scan, he would notice that he went through life – and that I will go through life – having never gotten a nipple ring (society, you’re welcome).

When my future self is done dwelling on the missed opportunities, he will surely reminiscence about all of the exciting and thrilling things that he did manage to do. The people he met; the food he tried; the things he did and learned; and the all of the places that he went, albeit without Jeff Goldbum.

And probably without the Swedish bikini team either, but you never know. Some dreams are worth hanging onto.

Hulkamania Runs Wild in My Dream

Allow me to share a dream I had:

I was golfing down in Florida. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon; there were no clouds in the sky. The green leaves hanging from the trees seemed to glisten. While walking down the fairway, I ran into none other than Hulk Hogan and Jimmy “The Mouth of the South” Hart. We get to talking and start hanging out at this unnamed resort.

After we complete our round – I don’t recall what I shot, but I imagine that even in my dreams I shanked a few dozen into the woods – we head to the clubhouse for lunch. As we walk into the crowded restaurant, we run into Hogan’s ex-wife, Linda.

It was awwwwkward.

I could definitely feel the tension in the room. Things were so tense, I almost woke up.

The Mouth of the South and myself both thought it would be wise to steer the Hulkster away from his ex-wife. However, he was in a confrontational mood; I suspect that’s what made him such an excellent wrestler. While they argued at first, that quickly blew over. Soon Hogan started talking amicably with his ex-wife.

Before you know it, they decided to get back together.

To make their re-coupling official, they decide to hold a wedding reception – without the wedding part – at the resort. They planned to hold the reception in an outdoor courtyard. The area was enclosed with huge arches that were wrapped in vines. It really was a sight to behold. To further accentuate the bright blue skies and glimmering greenery, the Hogans brought in a famous decorator to dress up the courtyard. While the decorator was preparing the courtyard for the big non-wedding wedding reception, the resort owner entered and asked to see Hogan’s ex-wife’s wedding dress.

She didn’t have one.

We quickly discovered that this particular resort had this rule that anyone who used the courtyard must wear a wedding dress. Since there was to be no wedding, she didn’t have a wedding dress. Naturally, she tried to play the “Hogan card” to get an exception made, but that didn’t work with this owner. I suspected that he was more of an Ultimate Warrior fan growing up.

Hogan was quiet the whole time the owner and the ex-wife argued. I suspected this was his way of keeping the new-found peace. The argument with the owner ended with the ex-wife refusing to wear a wedding dress. This, in turn, ticked off the decorator because now all of his work was done for not. He really did have an impressive amount done in what seemed to be three minutes top.

The centerpiece on all of the tables were these white vases holding pink flowers that you could just tell the ex-wife did not like; and the decorator could tell too. I don’t know if it was the color or the simplicity of the pieces that Linda despised. I’m not too up on this stuff, whether it be in my dreams or in real life, but from what I remember, the centerpieces looked fine to me.

However, Linda clearly did not share my opinion. There was this unspoken tension brewing with the decorator. While nothing was ever explicitly said, I got the feeling there was some history between these two. They went back a ways, no doubt about it. I was curious if Hulk Hogan knew this. Part of me believed that if he did, he would have never agreed to let this particular decorator work his second wedding reception. On the other hand, love can make a man do crazy things and perhaps the thought of getting back together with his ex-wife was enough to prevent Hulkamania from doing a leg drop on the chap.

Anyways…

The ex-wife eventually agreed to get a wedding dress from a Jamaican dress designer who created her original wedding dress. It should be noted that I’m not sure if that meant she was ordering a dress from Jamaica or having a Jamaican woman fly in and create one.

Linda even agreed to keep the pink flowers and this, in turn, made the decorator happy. The pieces were starting to fall into place.

Despite the positive turn of events, something still seemed off. I gave Jimmy Hart a look and we were thinking the same thing – this reunion will never last.

You could just tell by the subtexts that there was still some unresolved conflict between Hogan and his ex-wife. We just knew that Hogan would end up getting hurt in the long run. And based on his body language, I think Hogan realized that too. But even if there was pain later, he deserved this one day of happiness and neither Jimmy Hart or myself were going to take that away from him.

After deciding to let Hogan attempt to reconcile with his wife, I awoke.

My dream was complex than most that I remember. This particular one was built using some classic sitcom plot devices. There was the “where’s the wedding dress?” conundrum that almost prevented the non-wedding from happening. And of course there was the “oh no, we pissed off the decorator! My wedding is going to be ruined!”

Despite the traditional boy meets girl plot, the dream put a little twist on these otherwise popular conventions. The ending even took a much different tone than most would have expected. Even though Hogan was getting back together with his ex-wife, you would think that would mean a happy ending.

But really, it was quite bittersweet.

I know that that happy ending would only be temporary. But my dream wasn’t about six months down the line. It was about that one moment when two botox babies came together to reconciles their differences in the name of love.

Despite the storm clouds looming over the horizon, I still have hope that the two can get back together and be happy, if only in my dreams.

A Revealing Look Back

They say that to truly know where you are heading, you have to first look back at where you came from. If we look back today, we can see that it has been almost ten years since the last major transition in songwriting. While the iPod may have irrevocably changed how we get and listen to our music, the turn of the century saw music move away from cheery pop songs about that special girl and, instead, zoomed in on the posterior of all the honeys in the house, the hiz house, as well as da heezy, fo’ sheezy.

Before one man led this shift in musical subject matter, songs focused on the actual derrière itself. Musical compositions such as Juvenile’s Back that Azz Up, Mystikal’s Shake Ya Ass, and Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping all extolled the virtues of the fanny, especially in its jiggling movement. These songs all harkened back to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s seminal piece on the topic.

However, in 1999, Sisqo became the first artist to truly take that common subject matter in a new and exciting direction by focusing on the female undergarments and the alluring cover they provide. Instead of going straight to the deed, this booty pioneer’s lyrics were centered around the suspense and buildup to the anticipated unveiling when boom! there dem hams be.

What better way to celebrate the 10^th anniversary of The Thong Song then to explore the song’s lyrics to get a proper prospective on how Sisqo managed to immensely glorify such a skimpy article of clothing. If one takes a closer look at the lyrics, one will find that this tune is not just a misogynistic anthem. It’s more nuanced than anyone has ever realized.

Aware of the inherent lowbrow nature of the subject matter, Sisqo embarks on this musical journey with a vocal introduction where he whispers – quite provocatively, might I add – about the things guys talk about, such as “the finer things in life.” It is clear that Sisqo, like a lot of people, enjoys a good pun. Notice the use of the word finer. It not only describes the types of things men like; it also alludes to the fine string that is the centerpiece of the thong. This little wordplay is what truly separates Sisqo from his peers. This linguistic twist puts the listener on his heels and provides a warning that there is more to this song than just sexy bottoms.

While the subject matter lends itself to criticism and snickering, Sisqo breaks down many of our preconceived notions. In fact, between the bass lines and phat beats lies a rather complex song.

One of the overall messages of the song is that we as a society can no longer hang onto our preconceived notions of race. The thong-wearing ladies are described as “just not urban, but pop cuz she was livin la vida loca.” He’s not just sampling a lyrical snippet from a radio hit; he’s breaking down racial stereotypes. It’s not only the urban crowd gawking at the thongs, but also the pop crowd and the Hispanic crowd. Together, they all enjoy a good thong. This is an article of clothing that doesn’t see color. People of all races and creeds can come together, even over a minor thing like a thong. If only more people could be like that.

It’s an optimistic song at its core.

If you only focus on the music video, themes such as racial harmony get lost amongst such vivid imagery like the beach babes shaking their hips and a hot dog being mustard. Sometimes you have to look beyond the words to see the true meaning of any song. One thing that Sisqo does to help people get past the lurid subject matter is to use the song’s structure to communicate with the listener.

One of the literary techniques used in the song is repetition. Constant singing of the phrase “da na da na” in the chorus conveys how widespread the thong phenomenon is. This phrase is also used as a metaphor to represent the similarities between thongs. The first couplet of “da na” is symmetrical to the second “da na.” This is not a mere coincidence. The dichotomy between the sets shows that in the macro-environment, all thongs are similar. The fact that this small phrase precedes each line in the chorus further represents the high number of thongs currently in use.

When you move away from the big picture and focus in on the micro-environment of this particular piece of lingerie, the “da na” and the other “da na” represents the similarities of the right and left side of the thong, if you know what I’m talking about.

Unlike other musicians, Sisqo avoids explicitly singing about the rear. Instead, he talks about everything up to that point. In this anticipatory plot about the thong and what mysteries lie underneath, Sisqo sings about the area around the thong, including the “dumps like a truck” and the “thighs like what what what.” The repeated “what” is interesting because it would almost seem like Sisqo is literally at a lose for words.

Its as if Sisqo spotted a woman wearing boxer briefs. Confused, he thinks that while biologically she may not need them for the added support, there is certainly an undeniable comfort level to them. This contrasts with the idea that a thong looks uncomfortable to wear, almost like a self-inflicted wedgie. Not to be deterred, Sisqo howls, not sings, but howls “let me see that thong!” He might as well have been telling the beach crowd to put away the granny panties for good. It’s excellent advice from the bard himself.

As part of the chorus – as well as the section that soccer moms and desktop dads alike lip sync with no shame – Sisqo sings about “that thong th thong thong thong.” It’s a little misleading what he is referring to here. On the one hand, the multiple appearances of the word “thong” could signify that the singer is focused on multiple thongs in his field of vision. Since there could be so many to choose from, he can’t afford to dwell on the brand and color of each individual pair. Instead, he speaks of the collective. The repeated use of “thong,” with no adjective to interject the sequence, shows that all thongs just aren’t alike, but rather they all hold equal value. While the color and amount of lace trim may vary widely, each thong is looked upon favorably.

Despite the strong evidence that Sisqo is singing about all the thongs in the area, it cannot be ruled out that Sisqo is singing about a specific woman and her undies instead. Repeated use of the word “thong” in the chorus could point to a low pressure system moving through the area, lowering the temperature and thus requiring this unnamed arctic babe to dress in layers by putting on multiple thongs. Listen closely and the sultry and risqué symbolism really comes through the speakers. This theory has been gaining in popularity recently as lyrical theorists point to “dat dress” that looks “so scandalous” and argue that he is singing about one dress and not multiple ones.

Then again, there may be only one dress since the other thong ladies in the club could have been wearing jeans. This, of course, does not take into account the “commando corollary” and all the titillating theories that conjures up.

These conflicting opinions is just further proof that after ten years, we’re still not truly sure of the underlying message of The Thong Song. Sisqo clearly was ahead of his time at that time, but, in due time, I feel that time will tell all about that thong th thong thong thong.

A Closet Heist

I’m losing pants at an alarming rate.

Let me get you up to speed on my investigation:

First, I have no idea at what point in the supply line my pants are getting lost. My routine is pretty standard. Once I take my clothes off, I toss them in the laundry basket. Maybe 5-7 days later, I gather a batch of clothes and take them down to the laundry room where I promptly dump the batch into the washing machine.

After 50 minutes going through the various washing cycles, I transfer the clothes to the dryer. Once dried, they end up on my bed until I decide to put the clothes away. There have been times when my clothes are placed in a temporary holding spot on my desk chair as I go to bed in my bed; my missing pants are not on my desk chair.

Eventually, my dress pants get hung up in my closet.

Somewhere in that process, I have lost two pairs of dress pants.

Like most laundry aficionados, I am well aware of the Missing Sock Phenomenon. No matter how close I pay attention, I always end up with an odd number of socks. Sooner or later, I will find a sock stuck in a pant leg or hiding inside a shirt right next to a dyer sheet. More than once, I have left the house wearing a sock on my right foot with a gray heel and on my left foot would be a sock with yellow stitching going across my toes. While they’re not an exact match, they are close enough. Besides, most people hardly notice. If they do, they rarely say anything because they’re in the same position I am.

It’s one thing to lose a sock though; it’s another to misplace a pair of trousers.

Right after Christmas, I used the sale opportunities to restock my dress pants’ inventory. Most of mine were worn at the seams and frayed at the edges. So I bought seven new pairs of pants – what can I say, I’m a sucker for the “buy ones, get ones.”

Several laundry cycles later, I was down to just six pair of pants. I was positive that I purchased two black pair of pants. However, after looking in my closet, I only spotted one. Since you normally don’t lose a pair of pants like you would a sock, I doubted my original seven and assumed that perhaps I only bought six.

But I was just lying to myself. Deep down, I knew I bought seven.

A couple weeks later, I felt like wearing my gray pants. It just felt like a gray pants kind of day, you know?

Lo and behold, my gray pants were missing too.

Something was going on.

Whoever was behind the Missing Sock Phenomenon must be to blame for my Disappearing Trouser Incident! I’m convinced that somewhere out there, there is some human being walking around in my gray pants while wearing my mismatched socks.

This whole situation is giving me a headache. I haven’t been this confused since spotting the ice cube display stand at the local Wal-Mart. Near the front, there’s a typical two door freezer with bags of ice for sale. On the front, in bright colors and fancy fonts, was a sign advertising these bags of ice as being “Healthier than Homemade!” Last I checked, ice cubes were still just frozen water. I didn’t see anyway for the Wal-Mart water to be any healthier than water at home.

They had another sign declaring “From Our Freezer to Yours!” Despite these tough economic times, it seems like these people are going through a lot of trouble to sell frozen water.

Despite being utterly baffled over Wal-Mart’s ice cube sales pitch, there was at least a valid motivation behind it – to sell more frozen water in bags.

But to steal pants?

Who would want to steal my pants? What’s the motivation for such a deed?

I went on a scavenger hunt looking for my gray pants. While I couldn’t locate those, I did find my second pair of black pants, stuck between two dress shirts.

With my second black pants found and back in the rotation, my focus was on retrieving my gray pants. I really liked them, especially how they presented my magnanimous gluts. You can’t easily ignore a benefit such as that; I had to find those gray pants!

As I thought more about it, I started to wonder if this was God’s way of telling me to dress sluttier by showing off some leg. For not working out much, I do have some pretty well-defined calf muscles. I suppose I could resort to rockin’ some shorts, but this weather is not conducive to showing off my thigh dermis.

I last wore my gray pants a couple weeks ago. I remember this because when I went home for lunch, I spilled some leftover spaghetti sauce and had to change my pants. I was curious if anyone at work would notice. Nobody noticed.

More importantly, that was the last time I saw my gray pants. They went into my dirty laundry pile, then simply vanished.

Last weekend, I did do some house cleaning and picked out several items of clothing that I intended to donate to the Salvation Army. I distinctly remember throwing my old clothes on the other side of my bedroom so as not to have them intermingle with the clothes I intended to keep.

It has been hypothesized that perhaps I accidentally threw my gray pants into the Salvation Army pile. I summarily rejected this theory as my Salvation Army pile consisted of items that I took out of my dresser; my gray pants were in the dirty laundry pile as a result of the spaghetti sauce splotch.

To this day, I have no idea where my gray pants went. Lost? Stolen? Something even more sinister at play here?

I don’t know. I have a real mystery on my hands.

I just wish I had some pants on my legs.